


Playing By The Rules

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [47]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Captivity, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-01-08 02:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21228479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: On a distant space station, the Doctor refuses to believe her eyes when she finds herself confronted with an old friend. Finally giving in to the empirical proof, things take a sudden, lethal turn.





	Playing By The Rules

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt:
> 
> _"Don't play games with me. Don't ever, ever think you're capable of that", except dark, please, and with Clara and a Doctor of your choosing._
> 
> Can be seen as a prequel to [I'll Use You As A Focal Point.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14339847)

“Don’t bother.” 

The Doctor’s voice is hard and cold as she strides forwards, waving one hand dismissively towards the figure sitting on a chair in the centre of the room. It’s chilly in here, wherever ‘here’ happens to be, although as an esteemed guess, it would appear to be some kind of ship – the floor feels metallic, and the artificial gravity coupled with faint vibrations running through the floor signal something in motion. Her breath clouds in front of her face, and she wishes it wouldn’t; it’s so much harder to appear furious when you’re staring down your foe through a cloud of your own making.

“I’ll spare you the effort of even trying to lie now. Don’t ever think you’re capable of playing games with me, because I can assure you quite emphatically that that you’re not capable of that.”

They’re words she’s said before, the Time Lady is sure of it, but the original context and the intended target evade her for the moment. In the meantime, she circles the figure, who adopts a superbly lifelike frown, turning towards her and saying, in a suitably offended tone that makes the Doctor’s heart skip an irrational beat: 

“And why would that be? Because your intellect is so superior to anyone else’s?” 

The Doctor lets out a short, sharp bark of laughter in response to the accusation. 

“Don’t try to kid yourself,” she says in the same brisk tone, unwilling to humour this trickster with sincerity or kindness. A deception is a deception, irrespective of the quality of the falsehood. “Like your intelligence could compete with mine.”

“Ah, yes. You and your enormous Time Lord brain,” the figure rolls its eyes. The Doctor can no longer deny it; the figure really does look like Clara, talk like Clara, and act like Clara. If she got closer, she’s sure that the smell would be the same too; a faint aroma of peaches and artron energy that she still recalls with distinct fondness. Not that she _plans_ on getting that close; she values her life too much for that. Whatever this thing is, it’s not her former companion, no matter how much her hearts may be racing in desperate, irrational longing. 

“It’s almost like I am Clara,” the figure says, as though on cue. “Please, you’re easier to read than Dan Brown. Have you considered the fact that I actually _am _Clara?” 

“No, because you’re not,” the Doctor says at once, taking half a step closer and poking experimentally at the so-called Clara’s arm. It’s warm. Soft to the touch. One might even be tempted to say it feels human, but there’s something about this – including the Time Lady’s dim recollections of where she’d been moments prior – still swimming into focus, so she isn’t willing to swear on it. “You might look like her, but you’re not.” 

“How can you be so certain that I’m not? You’re being very dismissive of this entire situation.” 

The Doctor circles Clara-but-not-Clara again, fumbling through her pockets for the sonic as she does so. There’s a thick, black chain attached to a manacle around fake-Clara’s ankle, the other end bolted to the floor, and there’s something akin to fear in the figure’s eyes. It’s the fear that stirs something instinctive in the Doctor, and she bites back the urge to sweep the stranger into her arms. 

“Because I can,” the Doctor says quietly, holding the sonic aloft and taking a reading. If this is a trick, this is surely to be the moment that it all evaporates; the moment when a hologram flickers or a mask is revealed, and the ruse is ruined. This is where the unpicking of the mystery begins, because the fact of the matter remains that the Doctor was _not_ here moments before, and now she is – wherever ‘here’ happens to be. But as she concentrates on the sonic screwdriver in her hand, running it up and down the figure’s body, she feels the first stirrings of fear, because what the sonic is telling her can’t be possible. 

Clara – because it has to be her; there can’t be any possibility of doubt now, because the sonic has never been wrong yet – smiles sadly at the Doctor. The Time Lady’s hearts begin to race further out of control, and she fights to keep her breathing even as she realises that this is Clara; _her _Clara, real and in the flesh and very, very alive. “See?” 

“But how…” the Doctor blinks, checking the reading again. A human heart, stilled between one heartbeat and the next. Chronological age – murky. Life signs – frozen. A long list of Gallifreyan statistics, far beyond the understanding of human medics, which match up exactly with what the Doctor knows –well, holds on mental file – of her former companion. She feels her mouth open and close uselessly several times, finding herself too shocked to so much as catch her breath. It takes several attempts to form: “How can you be here? Where even is here?” 

“Space base in the Arteria system; didn’t catch the name. There’s some war lord running riot in this sector, so I thought I’d come and investigate, but… well… they were faster than me. They had bigger guns, as well, so I saw the virtue in coming quietly.” 

The Doctor snorts. “Like anyone is faster than you, and like you’ve ever come quietly.” 

“This guy is half-cheetah, and has a really nasty attitude problem to boot. Makes for one hell of a combination.” 

The Doctor is half-listening, and before she can catch herself, she blurts: “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“Because I’m not exactly tempting bait, am I? You couldn’t even remember I existed until depressingly recently, so why would you come looking for me now when you haven’t before?” 

“Clara, I…” the Doctor feels her cheeks flush in response to the accusation. Clara is looking at her with an expression that’s pitched between irritation and sadness, and she drops her gaze to the floor to avoid having to watch her companion’s emotions play across her face as she attempts to explain herself. “It’s not that I haven’t… I’ve thought about… I’ve wanted to, I just… you have to understand…” 

“What?” Clara asks, and her tone is laced with a bitterness that the Doctor can’t quite dismiss as unfounded. This is decidedly founded, and decidedly fair, and she feels a hot rush of guilt. “Understand that I thought you cared about me, but I was wrong? Understand that I thought I mattered, but again, I was wrong? Clearly I can’t matter that much, or I wouldn’t be here, alone, and chained to the floor by a bloke with spots and a temper. If I wanted to deal with that sort of person, I could’ve gone back to Coal Hill. The Year 11s fit into that bracket perfectly, albeit with a different sort of spots.”

“I wanted to find you!” the Doctor says in a rush, ignoring Clara’s ramblings. She knows what the rambling means; knows that it’s her companion’s nervousness showing through, and she feels a further rush of guilt as she contemplates how much bravery it must take to risk tainting their reunion with the double-edged sword of demanding answers. “I wanted to, I just… you were having your life with Me, and I wanted you to be able to enjoy that without having me racing after you or dragging you into danger.” 

“Yes, because a life with Me was totally without danger.” 

“I… wait, what do you mean, ‘was’?” 

“I mean, she abandoned me about six months in. Tried to, anyway; tried to shop me back to your lot.”

“You mean…” 

“The angry blokes with big ugly collars, yeah. She tried to take me to them by force after I rumbled her sending them a communication with our coordinates in the middle of the night, so I locked her in a vault in the depths of the TARDIS and flung the key into a supernova. I’m sure she’s pissed off about it, but I haven’t bothered checking on her in about… ooh, a decade?” 

“So immortality has-” the Doctor begins, before getting her mouth under control and biting down on her lip hard. “Never mind.” 

“No, do share.” 

“No, it’s f-” 

“_Share_.” 

“Immortality has made you cold,” the Doctor says unwillingly, loathing herself for speaking the words into existence. “Because the Clara I knew would never have done that.”

“The Clara you knew wasn’t on the run from your people with a TARDIS she nicked and a functional sort of immortality that they probably want back.” 

The Doctor considers this statement for a moment. She can’t be condemnatory; not after all she’s witnessed and all she’s inflicted on others.

“You’re right,” she acquiesces after a moment, sighing deeply. “Look, why don’t I undo this chain, we can work out how the hell we get out of here, and then we can maybe do something more permanent about Me?” 

“Like murder?” Clara deadpans, then catches sight of the Doctor’s expression and grimaces. “Sorry, poor attempt at humour. Like… I’m sure you have a very reasonable and sensible and non-murderous plan for her, which we can discuss once you get the chain off.” 

“I mean, if you’re such an excellent adventurer now, why haven’t you taken it off?” 

“Because I have two jackets, and the sonic sunglasses are in the other one.” 

“You… you kept them?” 

“What else was I meant to do with them? Start a shrine?” 

The Doctor’s mouth twists into a smirk. “Maybe.”

“Now who’s the egomaniac?”

The Doctor flushes maroon and helps Clara to her feet, then angles the sonic down until it’s pointed at the chain, buzzing through settings until one seems to engage with the thick, icy metal of the lock. There’s a faint click, and then something flashes out of the manacle around Clara’s ankle, plunging into the skin and then retracting before either woman can react. 

As the metal falls away from Clara’s leg, an ugly green tinge begins to spread up her calf, and comprehension dawns with damning finality on them both. A booby trap, and one that was laughably simple; she should have realised that this was all too easy, and now… 

“No,” Clara mumbles, her leg giving way. She tumbles to the floor in an ungainly fashion then reaches for the offending limb, running her hands over her leg as though she might be able to grasp it hard enough to halt the spread of whatever lethal poison was in the barb. “No, no, no…” 

“It’s alright,” the Doctor says in a high, desperate voice, crouching beside her and beginning to flick through settings on the sonic at the speed of light, even as panic begins to threaten to consume her. Her hearts are pounding hard enough to hurt, but she concentrates her gaze on the tool in her hand, praying that there’s some mode, some resonation pattern, that might help. “It’s OK, it’s alright, you’re going to be fine. It’s just a booby trap. Just a silly, daft booby trap. It can’t hurt you, right? You’re trapped between heartbeats. Your blood isn’t being pumped around your body.”

“I don’t…” Clara manages, her voice rasping, and when the Doctor looks up at her with the utmost reluctance, afraid of seeing her suffer, she feels her stomach drop as she realises that the ugly green stain has already spread, licking up Clara’s neck and spreading along the exposed skin of her arms. “I don’t think that…” 

“We can fix this,” the Doctor says again, as though repeating it may make it true, before pulling Clara onto her lap and continuing to fumble through settings. “We can… we can…” 

“Doctor,” Clara says weakly, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back onto the Doctor’s shoulder, shaking her disagreement feebly. “Doctor, just… god, just… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“Why would you even say that?” 

The green is creeping along her jaw and across her cheeks now, wickedly emerald and hideously fatal, and the Doctor feels the oddest sense of certainty that once it reaches Clara’s eyes, then it’s all over. Please, not now. Please, not now; not when they’ve been afforded this; a second chance, the rarest of the rare. 

“For… I should’ve… it’s good to see you again.” 

“It’s good to see you too.” 

“And… I’m sorry.” 

“For…”

Clara falls still, her eyes frozen open as the breath leaves her body, and the Doctor feels as though she’s been plunged into icy water. This was the briefest of reunions; the most soaring sense of hope she has ever felt, and now? Now, all that for naught, and it was all her own fault. She should’ve been more careful; she should’ve considered whether precautions had been put in place to prevent such easy-seeming escapes. She should’ve tried harder to save her companion from whatever the toxin had been. She should’ve told her the truth of the matter: that she’d been scared to find her lest she face rejection, and she’d been especially scared to confess that she loved her, because what if Clara no longer loved the woman she’d become? But no; she’d never said the words aloud, and now she never would. She’d heard Clara say it, and watched her demonstrate it in a thousand deeds and actions, but she would now remain forever haunted by the ghost of the words she would never get to speak. 

There’s an odd, niggling sensation at the back of her head, and she closes her eyes tightly in a bid to ignore it, clinging to Clara’s body as she begins to sob. This is unfair. She is old enough and wise enough now to know that death is rarely bothered by such trivial human sentiments as fairness, and yet this blow seems particularly cruel in its timing. There had been so much to say. There had been so much to do. There had been so much-

In the midst of the crashing, agonising tsunami of her grief, she realises the oddity in the conversation between the two women. The niggle in her head swims to the forefront of her mind, and she looks down at her companion, frowning slightly as she does so. 

“You weren’t surprised,” she says softly, placing a hand on Clara’s cheek and feeling the awful, unwelcome coolness of her skin. “You weren’t surprised that I’m…” 

There are logical explanations, she supposes, for Clara’s lack of comment on her sudden change in gender. There’s the fact that Clara being Clara, she’d been keeping tabs on her, or maybe she’d heard rumours or glimpsed her from afar. 

Or maybe… 

The memory of where she’d been, prior to this, suddenly resurfaces, and she swears aloud as comprehension dawns. She’d been minding her own business on one of the outer Tigeoid planets, and a merchant had approached her offering her some kind of puzzle – the language used had been vague and non-specific, but there was something about trickiness and challenge. She’d shaken her head, but the seller had followed her a short way, thrusting something over her head insistently, and- 

“No,” she says in a low, fierce voice, shoving Clara’s body away from her and getting to her feet, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “No. You thought you could play games with me? Well, you thought wrongly. You picked the wrong woman to mess with, and I will rain hell on you until the end of-”

The room around her dissolves into nothingness, replaced with the grubby street on which she’d been standing some minutes before. The seller is standing before her looking smug and self-satisfied; an expression which turns to fear as she notes the Doctor’s furious rage.

“Is pretend!” the tiny woman squeaks, attempting to back away in terror. “Is to try things out… is to have…” 

“You thought you could play games with a Time Lord?” the Doctor snarls, yanking at the amulet around her neck so hard that the cord it’s suspended on snaps. It’s a cheap-looking thing made with a turquoise stone, and she drops it to the ground and stamps on it until it cracks. “You thought that would be wise?” 

“Please!” the woman implores her, and the Doctor realises that the expression on her own face is one of absolute menace. A Lancashire voice, somewhere near the back of her head, reminds her to be kind, and she rearranges her face into something approximating neutrality, swallowing thickly as she does so. 

“Shut this down immediately,” the Doctor says in her sternest voice. “Destroy them all, and don’t you dare ambush any more travellers with your tricks.” 

The woman nods once in petrified understanding, and the Doctor turns on her heel and strides back to the TARDIS without a backwards glance. There’s someone very important she needs to find, and there’s things she needs to say.


End file.
